Cousin Diana
by HattaPanza
Summary: Diana makes her first visit to Ferndean. After her week-long stay, what will her first impressions of Jane's marriage to Rochester ultimately be? INCOMPLETE


My Edward and I, happy despite all in our solitary abode, anticipated together the sound of wheels on the rocky and somewhat perilous road leading through the cave-like forest surrounding Ferndeam. As we waited side-by-side on the chaise, Mr. Rochester, as had become his habit of late, usually in his increasingly infrequent instances of anxiety, laid his strong hand – so child-like in its simple manner of extension - next to my own. This gesture, at once very sincere and affectionate, had also become a clear signal to me of the self-consciousness that still plagued him. I took that hand at my side once again in both my own, as both his wife and his confidante; for, true to the vow he had once given me, he kept nothing from me. It was yet strange to me, and doubtless would always _be _strange to me, to see this man's vigor so blighted by the uncertainty that infirmity had made inevitable, having once seen him in his prime. Fairfax Rochester, the good master of Thornfield, had once stood proud and sure of his athletic stature, and now that unwavering pride was perhaps only a shadow of what it had been. My husband had related to me some days ago his doubts that our visitor would find him a worthy companion for me. He still, since his injuries, spoke with the same resonant authority, and stood in the same commanding posture, but not – as in this particular instance of apprehension – without moments of melancholy. Though I had assured him these misgivings were unfounded, uncertainty persisted.

"You have told them of my hideous crimes, Jane. You have said so yourself," Mr. Rochester had said. "How could anyone believe such a man to be good and fit for marriage to a person such as yourself? So full of promise and life you are, my Janet! I fear she will shrink from this desolate place and convince you of her correct vein of thought."

He had hit upon a point I had not overlooked. I felt it was in good faith that I relate to my family why I had thus left them, and of what nature my new husband was which had the uncommon ability to tear me from them for such a time. It was, of course, impossible for me to tell them everything, for to do so would be a compromise of that unrestricted confidence I so coveted. What I did tell Diana and Mary in my correspondence was thus:

"…_and so you now know the reason for my departure. I could not marry your brother, for, love him as I do, his nature does not suit my own. I believe I am not made so perfectly for the life he has spread out for himself, though he may attest otherwise. He is good and great, but I believe my calling was for something else, for a life filled with much smaller examples of faith._

_I live now with, and was married this very morning to, the man I had left so abruptly and wildly when I first came to you. I left him at that time because I had had a blow, and yet loved him too much, and so found it unquestionably necessary that I should leave so as to save us both the pain remonstrated love and bitter regret. I will not dwell too much on these matters, for though it seems appropriate that you should know something of the reason I first left him, all of those events are in the past for us. My husband is, unwaveringly to his core, a good man. He is a Christian, revived in the dawn after a long, black night of hardship – for so it is in my absence he has recently recovered from a fire, which has left him blind and maimed._

_I love him, my dears, as my own heart, and I hope that you shall understand this as an acceptable enough reason for having left Moor House, a dwelling which has been for me a kind of heaven, and with you all as my new family more so…"_

I did not read this letter to him verbatim, but gave him a brief description. Mr. Rochester did concern himself with what their reactions to our sudden marriage might be, but when Diana's reply arrived at last and proved not to hint at any condemnation of the match, he said nothing more until that day. Knowing conclusively that Diana and Mary were incapable, when I had told them otherwise, of excessive scrutiny, I had accosted him.

"If Diana ever really acted in the way you describe, she would not be the woman I believed her to be all this time, my dear. 'Hideous' is a gross exaggeration - I said nothing of the kind. Diana does not judge so harshly as others do." I replied. "She forgives and embraces with a warm and generous heart. I think you will find in her an affectionate friend even for yourself." He said no more on the subject, wary, I believe, that he should reveal too much of the insecurities I knew he was working desperately to banish from his battered psyche.

Now, though, despite this silent affirmation of troubled thoughts, he seemed more at ease than in days past. He squeezed my hand gently and ventured a conversation. "You will have to make sure, Jane, that her room is always dry and kept well. I don't want her to worry more than she should that you are living in such a state as Ferndean. Never was there a damper house in all of England – this will be plain to her."

"Tut tut," I said, teasing him, "you are always putting this house down. It is not so bad as you might think, and I do not find the wood as oppressive as you are constantly describing it."

"There's my Jane, always looking toward the best! You have no idea, Janet, of the relief I feel that you are not too put out by this situation we find ourselves in."

He smiled and leaned into me. I had not, and in fact could never have, imagined before my own experience in it what marriage would be like, how even more completely our souls could be melded as one. I let a few moments pass in silence, after which I looked at him to reassess his mood. His face was calm and happy, though I could see the latent nerves that showed themselves in the lineaments of his eyes. His otherwise fine forehead was left unwrinkled, no deep workings there; his lips unpursed - an altogether a pleasing view. I looked my fill, and discovered, as was not now uncommon, that my excitement in the prospect of seeing my cousin had been over-taken. I stroked – for there was at last nothing to inhibit me – my hands through his black hair, and watched him relax even more fully.

"Put your mind at ease, Edward, for this _situation _is perfectly congenial to my happiness." And it was – this was true. We could not flee to the continent, as he had so desperately wished in our time at Thornfield, but the isolation of Ferndean was a different sort of sanctuary – tranquil and unscrutinized by outsiders. This made me happy, for our privacy was perfect, and the calm comforts of being at home were a near-relief after the strain of living so close to St. John, his harsh judgment always an impediment to true repose.

As I slid my fingers gently through his hair, he closed his unseeing eyes restfully, sighed, and pulled me closer.

At last the carriage came near the house, its noisy approach forcing me from my indulgent manner of regard. I kept my husband's hand as we crossed the house to stand on the threshold for the proper greeting of our guest. Waiting for the carriage to reach close to the door, I strained my eyes to first see my cousin's face behind the puny, glaring windows. My excitement returned. How long I felt it had been since I had seen Diana and Mary! At last I saw that pretty, smiling mien, Diana's charm penetrating even that dusty window glass. She hardly waited for the carriage to stop before she jumped from it without inhibition. I stayed myself on the step, but watched her, taking delight as her face lit and she hurried to me, and I met her with equal enthusiasm and an embrace.

"Jane! My dear! How well you look!"

"And you, Diana! How much I have missed my cousins in these short months!"

"And we, of course, have missed you! Mary is sorry she could not venture to see you as yet, but she would stay with Hannah who has been ill with fever. Poor thing! I daresay she will be over it soon, though. She was looking better already when I left."

"Poor Hannah! I am glad she is over the worst of it." We looked on each other with joy, and I once again was elated by this confirmation of a loving family. I hastened, though, to unite all those dear to me by acquaintance.

"Diana, please meet my husband, Mr. Rochester." At these words, he spoke at last, having let go of my hand to offer his to my cousin.

"Miss Rivers, I am enchanted. I have heard so much of you, I consider you my family without once having met you." He tentatively offered a smile, testing Diana, I believe, to ascertain whether she would meet him good-naturedly or otherwise.

She, however, laughed outright, taking his hand without hesitation. She looked unrestrained upon his scarred features, however with carefully masked sympathy. Diana was compassionate by nature, it was an instinct for her, and could transform her countenance in an instant from silly humor to that of confident and pure goodness. This look I saw in her was familiar to me – it reminded me of the night I met her. Most would not have noticed it, but if they did they would have mistaken it for absolute pity. Knowing otherwise, I was happy that I had anticipated precisely what her reaction would be. "I am delighted to meet you, as well, Mr. Rochester! Likewise, I am sure, we will be good friends in no time at all."

We invited her in the manor-house, and the afternoon and evening were spent in natural, easy conversation; never did any involuntary silence elapse to confront this. Diana and Mr. Rochester, as predicted, got on very well. She was, though he had encountered it rarely, exactly the personality he most enjoyed: she was honest and kind, intelligent, humble and especially quick to laugh, though hardly at another's expense. Once he became sure she would not take offense, he began to call her 'Cousin Diana', because he knew it would entertain me even more than it did her.

We all chatted amiably, even though they dominated most of the discourse in getting to know each other. I was content in this, and happily encouraged it, seeing them so pleased. Diana asked him delightful questions about his travels, once she learned he had been to the continent. He told her of everything he himself had taken true enjoyment in while he was there. My husband asked her incessant questions about herself and Mary and their time teaching, of which Diana complained immensely, and Mr. Rochester found quite amusing. By dinner, much to my embarrassment, they had begun to speak and boast of me. It became a kind of provoking game, and though I did, at times, sense a blush rise to my cheeks, I knew their banter was meant well. In truth I did not mind these attentions, for I was exultant in finding them so at home with each other.

It was not too late when Diana confessed she was tired and regretfully excused herself for bed. I knew she had been greatly fatigued by her journey. We showed her to her room, and retired ourselves.

Once Mr. Rochester and I were in our own joint chamber, he began to confide his thoughts in me, which he had not been able to do fully in company. Mostly they were very lively and cheerful.


End file.
